


A Well Groomed Qunari

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 20:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4891519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because the Qun didn't encourage vanity doesn't mean (as Dorian might sometimes accuse, in a huff) that Bull doesn't understand the importance of beauty rituals.</p>
<p>It's possible there might be one or two he's avoiding explaining the significance of to Dorian.</p>
<p>(or Qun headcanons dressed up as fluff)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Well Groomed Qunari

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrightgotwronged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrightgotwronged/gifts).



They play, and it is only years later that he will realise all play has a purpose.

What Ashkaari knows: the false vitaar comes in different colors, itches a little as it dries. You have to sit still until it's done. That's part of the lesson. Tama, or young-Tama, shows them first, the basic patterns, the meanings. They practice on each other, as well, laughing when it smears.

A Beresaad comes to speak, one day. It's not a surprise; they often have people come to visit. They come to speak to Tama, to speak to the imekari about jobs they may one day do, or just to observe. The Beresaad comes wearing vitaar, ceremonial patterns but it's the real thing, hard when he crouches to let small curious fingers poke at it, across his shoulders, all down his back in places you cannot reach by yourself.

“When you trust another man with your vitaar,” he says, looking straight at Ashkaari, tallest and broadest-shouldered among his year-group, “you entrust him with your life. That is true kinship.”

In Seheron, where the tiniest slip can mean the difference between life and death, Hissrad learns the truth of those words. Of meditative quiet in the still of the morning while they assist each other with their vitaar in turns. That Vasaad is rash in battle and his lines sometimes shake but Hissrad can trust him in this, and that kinship anchors everything.

In Orlais, Bull rigs up a brush on the end of a stick and doesn't make too bad a mess of it. He'll just learn not to turn his back on an enemy if he can help it. He goes on like that until Krem, rolling his eyes, points out that _gloves are a thing, chief_ and that if he doesn't think the Tevinter army teaches you a thing or two about handling poisons then maybe he hasn't fought as many 'vints as he keeps claiming he has.

Much later: a request to Krem, and Dorian's mouth falling open when he lays eyes on Bull, although he swiftly recovers with a glare at Krem and a rapid-fire bit of Tevene out of which he can only make out _Pavus_ and _Cremisius_.

Krem does good work. He's also pretty hard to intimidate, and to be honest, Dorian's probably not really up to the job. “What?” he says, shrugging. “Chief wanted a bit of a change.”

“If I flex the right way it looks like the peacock is _dancing_.” Bull says. “Want to see?”

* * *

Ashkaari envies the hornless, a little. Horns _itch_ growing in.

Tama makes the balm, although they all take turns to stir the pot, one of the little tasks. No place here for idle hands, Tama says. They line up and Tama helps rub the itch out, and then they learn to help each other.

Always, always, helping each other. The imekari are never set to any task alone. They never have to be. There's a phrase in Qunlat, actually, one Bull won't be using in any impromptu language lessons: _to balm your own horns_.

It means loneliness, or selfishness, or isolation, or all of those things.

Bull's not sure he can argue with that, as much as he'd like to. That's how life is. Stitches makes balm for him when they can find the ingredients, a rough approximation, and he manages. He's lost greater things than that little comfort, the press of another's hands, be it colleague or Tamassran.

“Sit down.” Dorian says, striding into Bull's room as if he owns it. Orders, really. Bull can't think of any reason to not play along, so does, and Dorian presses a pot into his hands. “I asked Stitches what goes in that balm he makes for you.”

When he lifts the lid, the scent is-- “There's no way this came from one of Stitches' recipes.”

“Like I said, I got Stitches to tell me what goes in your usual.” Dorian's tone is attempting _imperious_ , but something about his body language says _hesitant_. “Which is precisely why I decided to acquire something more suitable from alternate sources.”

Bull wonders who he asked. Red, perhaps, or Ma'am. “Thank you.” he says, genuinely touched. A gift like this takes thought, and care. Without ever asking him, Dorian noticed a need, figured out what to do about it, and organised the whole thing without Bull getting so much as a hint of what he was up to. Shit, that's hot.

He reaches up, meaning to draw Dorian down into a kiss; even with Bull sitting and Dorian standing it's not that far down. But Dorian hesitates again, his right hand coming to rest on the pot of balm instead. “I thought I might assist you with it, if you'd allow me.” Stiff, a little over-formal, his accent bleeding through the words. “I mean, I'm not certain of the exact technique, but I'm sure--”

“When have I ever complained about your technique?” Bull says, feeling his face fair to split from grinning in a way that's got nothing to do with his little joke. “ _I place myself in your care_.” he adds, dipping his head.

He can see Dorian trying to work through it-- he's picked up words of Qunlat here and there, probably thinks Bull doesn't know about his stash of dictionaries in the library-- but he doubts this one is in any of his books. “What does that mean?” he asks, curiosity overriding his obvious desire to smack Bull for the innuendo.

Since there's no short way to explain and now he's thinking about it he'd really like to get Dorian's hands on his horns, he decides to paraphrase. “It means yes, please.”

* * *

When young-Tama has been with Tama five years, she gets to become a real Tama and have imekari of her own. It is an important day. The imekari gather to watch as Tama does young-Tama's hair.

“I place myself in your care.” young-Tama says, bowing her head.

Tama kisses her gently on the forehead. “And for that gift, I thank you.”

Dorian is much less graceful about such things, but even he can't manage entirely by himself with his wrist in a splint. “That is the _last_ time I offer to have anything to with trying to fix the hideously incompetent education of southern mages.” he huffs, when Bull goes to see if he's going to make it down to breakfast. He's trying to make his hair obey him and clearly losing the battle. His robes sit loosely for the moment, because they're not meant to be done up with one hand.

Also, that's entirely a lie; Dorian has a soft-spot the size of a druffalo for teenaged southern mages, especially when they flatter his ego by wanting to know how his spells work. “You want me to help?” he offers, because the chances of Dorian actually asking before he injures his other wrist trying to do it all by himself are fairly low.

For a moment he expects Dorian to shake his head, make some blithe sarcastic comment and wave him off. They are still stumbling around the boundaries of these smaller, deeper intimacies; there is no way for Bull to tread carefully enough to avoid ever stepping on one of the Tevinter tripwires laid about Dorian's heart, defences he still hasn't managed to shrug off entirely.

For his part, he's still looking for words in a language they both speak to explain the old scars salved by Dorian's hands on him, the desires he struggles to bind and reshape so they can be right, so that they can be what Dorian needs.

(Not everything he was taught under the Qun was false; selfishness is how it starts, with Tal-Vashoth. This cannot be about what _he_ wants.)

Dorian stares at him, for a soft, quiet moment. “If you'd like.” he says, false nonchalance. “ _I place myself in your care_.”

The response, nearly automatic, catches in his throat at the last moment. He never did explain what it really means.

“That Tal-Vashoth mercenary Sera has been salivating over for the past week had some very interesting things to tell me about Qunari customs.” Dorian adds, lightly. “She was most helpful. And almost disturbingly enthusiastic about the various implications of me balming your horns, by the way.”

Shit. Caught out. Although, when he looks, feeling the sort of awkward embarrassment he hasn't since he went by _Ashkaari_ , Dorian is smiling. “I--”

“Oh, just come here, you ridiculous lummox.” Dorian says. “Was my pronunciation off? _I place myself in your care_.”

A little, actually, but he's hardly going to quibble over such a thing. “ _And for that gift, I thank you, Kadan._ ”

The last word he doesn't intend. It's-- not a mistake, as such. If Dorian recognises it, he gives no sign. “Don't worry if it's not quite right.” he says, instead. “Maker knows the locals can't tell the difference. I'll just have to let my charm and dashing good looks carry me through the day.”

If that's a concern, he obviously underestimates how much time Bull's spent watching him preen himself like his namesake. Just for that, he's going to do up all Dorian's buckles in reverse order.


End file.
